


In Which Dwalin is Very Surprised

by liadan14



Series: Sexual Mores in Erebor (Fills from the Hobbit Kink Meme) [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, bottom!Dwalin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liadan14/pseuds/liadan14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin has been interested for a long time, but he is a little unprepared for what sweet, charming Bofur is like. In bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Dwalin is Very Surprised

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5821.html?thread=12789181t12789181  
> Also my first foray into Hobbit!fic. Basically just smut.

Dwalin blames the wine. It’s the good stuff, though if Thorin asks, he never said so – Elvish brew strong enough to grow hair on a dwarf’s chest. More hair, that is. Probably not on an elf’s chest though.

Either way, Dwalin’s blaming the wine. It’s the only explanation. It’s been known to change folk after all, make them loose-limbed and giggling like Fíli, or loud and brash like Kíli. And, well, it’s not unheard of that it makes you. Well.

Makes sweet, unassuming, lovely lads like Bofur come up behind a dwarf like Dwalin, tracing his calloused fingers up every hotspot along Dwalin’s spine and whispering, “Meet me in your rooms in ten minutes”.

Dwalin would be the worst sort of liar if he claimed the thought had never crossed his mind. It has. Many times. And not just crossed, splayed itself across his thoughts like an expensive whore on silk sheets, images of Bofur on just such sheets, his limber body spread out bare and covered in hair, braids even more of a mess than usual, that _ridiculous fucking hat_ pulled slowly off his lap to reveal –

But Dwalin tries not to dwell. It has been a long and eminently ridiculous quest even without him fighting a constant war against his own cock. Bofur’s not as much of a child as some members of the company, but he is a little younger, a little slimmer, and such a gentle, kind sort of fellow Dwalin fears his own body in comparison. He is tall for a dwarf, muscled and thick-bodied, not to mention the weapons strapped to every part of him. Surely not Bofur’s type, no matter how wicked his sense of humor has turned out to be.

Only now…well, now. There was wine, Dwalin reasons. Wine, and the celebration of a newly reclaimed Erebor, of peace and prosperity and Thranduil taking off his battle helmet and allowing Thorin to braid in the traditional braids of treaty, no matter how much he cringed as he did it. All is well under the mountain and for the first time in decades, Dwalin’s allowed to relax.

Damn it all. He lifts himself up from the long bench quickly improvised in what used to be Erebor’s greatest hall and soon will be again. Thankfully he goes unnoticed by the celebrating masses – Bilbo has seen fit to teach Fíli and Kíli Shirefolk drinking songs, and the three of them are dancing up and down the tables, shrieking with laughter.

Thorin might be laughing.

Pigs might be flying.

Dwalin sneaks out the hall and up the stairs towards his chambers. He’s steady on his feet despite the wine, he hasn’t overindulged, partially because he’s a paranoid fucker and partially because he was distracted watching the line of Bofur’s throat as he poured a pint of ale down his throat.

So that’s settled them.

He pushes open the door to his room, not even sure what to expect, and –

He finds himself pressed to the wall with surprising force, door closing next to him. A hot mouth presses to his, chapped lips and warm breath pushing against his for a moment. Then, “Was worried you wouldn’t come”, murmured directly against his lips before Bofur’s kissing him proper, their beards and moustaches tickling against each other as Bofur’s tongue finagles its way into Dwalin’s mouth.

Dwalin’s always been a soft touch for a good kisser, and Bofur’s the best. He doesn’t press too hard, as some do, instead uses his mouth to leave searing lines of heat, as generous with his kisses as he is in every other aspect of his life. And his tongue, Mahal, his tongue. Dwalin likes it sloppy, likes that there’s a little trail of spit on his moustache, that Bofur can’t seem to get enough of him.

He breaks away to see Bofur’s eyes. He has lovely eyes, and Dwalin needs to see, before…

“Gods, Bofur,” he finds himself saying, “I want you, I want, but, I – this…I want you.”

“Shh,” Bofur whispers, that stupid, stupid, devilish smile of his playing about his eyes. His fingers stroke along Dwalin’s hands and curl around them, such a sweet, innocent little gesture if he weren’t breathing fire on Dwalin’s neck, pressing soft kisses to it. “I’d never ask if all I wanted was your body, fine though it may be.”

Dwalin absolutely does not whimper with relief against the side of Bofur’s head, and he also does not gasp when Bofur’s teeth catch against the column of his neck and _Aulë is he sucking_.

He’s a warrior, for Mahal’s sake, he’s been slaying orcs and bedding boys since Bofur was little more than a babe in arms, but something about Bofur, about his smile and his scent and his mouth is ridding Dwalin of all his faculties. Clever fingers push up under Dwalin’s tunic, tracing the skin at his waist lightly. Dwalin grasps Bofur by the hair, hat knocked off onto the floor, and pushes their mouths together again.

“Mmm,” Bofur hums lazily as if this were all just beginning to affect him. “I want you naked, love”.

Dwalin would point out that he is no one’s love. No one’s, absolutely not, ever. His thighs are the size of small tree trunks, for fuck’s sake, and his upper body is riddled with tattoos. No one has ever called him love.

He is gearing up to say so as Bofur pulls at the laces to his many layers of clothing, somehow finding and catching all the weapons and tossing them to the ground, but then Bofur’s mouth finds his ear again.

“I’ve seen you, you know,” he says, so damnably close to the patch of skin behind Dwalin’s ear. “Watching me, looking like you’d like nothing better than to spread me over your lap.”

Dwalin shudders as teeth tug at his earlobe while a finger discovers the ring pierced through his nipple.

“And it’s a fine fantasy to be sure, one we will certainly be revisiting. Me, on top, riding that fine pikestaff you’re hiding in your britches till I can’t stay upright any longer and I need you to turn me over and take me till I scream.

Dwalin’s tunic falls to the floor. His ‘pikestaff’, if that’s what they’re calling it, throbs.

“But not tonight.”

Bofur pulls away, and Dwalin would protest, but he’s stripping of his own shirt, braids coming out mussy and tangled, chest more slender than Dwalin’s own but admirably muscled, and covered in dark hair. He reaches out to touch almost without thinking, carding through the soft hair and running a thumb over Bofur’s beautiful pink nipples.

“Not tonight?” He asks hoarsely.

“Not tonight,” Bofur repeats, grinning, kicking off his boots. Dwalin hurries to do the same. “Tonight, I want you pliant.”

Pliant. Not a thing Dwalin has ever been. Until Bofur pulls at his other nipple ring, that is.

“Gods, you’re gorgeous,” Bofur says, his nimble fingers headed for Dwalin’s trouser lacings. “So big and muscled and all mine. I want to see all of you, you know, every single tattoo, and I want you under me while I figure out how to make you scream my name.”

He finishes on a strong grope of Dwalin’s groin, and Dwalin gives up, helplessly aroused as he is at this point, and nowhere near as in control of it as Bofur seems to be.

“Yes,” he moans. “Yes. I haven’t – I’ve never.”

“Never had someone inside you, aye?”

“Aye – fuck, _Bofur!_ ”

“I promise to be a worthy first,” Bofur says, as if he could be anything but when just his fingers and his mouth and his words have wrecked Dwalin more than the best sex he’s ever had.

Their trousers pool to the floor, kicked off and to the side, and Dwalin is unceremoniously pulled and pushed onto the bed.

“That’s it,” Bofur murmurs, rummaging in his clothes for something – oil, presumptuous fucker. “Dwalin, you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Dwalin is about to protest that he’s done nothing, Bofur is the one driving him to insanity, when Bofur launches himself onto Dwalin, straddling his waist and kissing him so deeply Dwalin gives up on words.

They’ve never been his strong suit.

Instead, he’s reduced to whimpers, moans and in his more self-possessed moments, manly grunts. Bofur takes his sweet time, caressing what feels like every inch of Dwalin as he makes his way toward the goal, taking random patches of skin into his mouth and suckling and biting when he finds one that makes Dwalin yell.

He completely ignores Dwalin’s cock, which is probably for the best at this point.

When his first finger enters, Dwalin has his first doubts. It’s odd, he knows from experience that others love it, but he’s not sure he’s one of them, and a surge of panic comes over him when he wonders whether he’s clean enough for this.

“Relax, love,” Bofur says, and he’s still smiling, so carefree despite what Dwalin can clearly see is a thick and urgent erection between his legs. He crooks his finger, clearly a practiced move, and Dwalin would be jealous if it didn’t feel so damn good.

He’s moaning constantly by the time Bofur gets to three fingers, stretching him open, pulling and prodding at his prostate past the point where he can care whether or not he’ll be heard.

Bofur hears, and that’s all that matters. “The noises you make,” he says, growls, really, “so lovely. Want to watch you come on just my fingers, bet you could, want you like this all the time, my great big warrior _wrecked_ from what I can do to him.”

“NOW,” Dwalin all but yells. “Fuckin’…Bofur, if you don’t get in me now I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Bofur laughs lightly, but his fingers withdraw and he’s flipping Dwalin onto his front, placing his hands on the headboard and telling him to kneel up and hold steady before at long, long last, he presses inside slowly.

So slowly. It burns, it does, but Dwalin’s never claimed not to love it rough. “More,” he says. His throat hurts almost more than his ass does from all the noise he’s been making.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” Bofur says, but Dwalin can hear his teeth are gritted and he’s glad it’s affecting Bofur just as badly.

He pushes back until all of Bofur is inside him, heavy balls resting against his ass and chest hair rubbing against his back. Bofur’s shuddering, or maybe Dwalin is, and they both have to pause, gasping, till they can move.

When they do, Dwalin does scream. Bofur is too damnably good at this, absolutely nailing that spot every single time, rolling and curving his hips in ways Dwalin didn’t know were possible but can’t think about now. His wrists are pressing against the headboard uncomfortably, and Bofur’s weight is almost too much, but the pleasure is so sweet he doesn’t even notice properly, pushing back against Bofur with every thrust.

“So good,” Bofur groans against him, “so good for me, so…oh Mahal, Dwalin, going to need this again and again, every damn day, you under me like an offering too good for the gods themselves, I am going to fucking ruin you for anyone else and keep you just…like…this.”

He punctuates the last words with particularly hard thrusts and Dwalin, Dwalin wants to tell him he’s already succeeded, doesn’t think anyone could ever fuck him this good, make him this hard, make him _lose his fucking mind_ this much, but he can’t, he can’t, he’s drawing in air desperately and wrenching one hand from the headboard to stroke his own cock because he just can’t wait another second.

When he comes, it’s explosive, he’s yelling with it and writhing with every spurt, ruining the sheets below him and not giving a flying fuck as his eyes roll back in his head and his whole body arches intensely.

Bofur follows not far after, giving his own strangled shout before he lets loose a volley of short, sharp thrusts directly on Dwalin’s prostate, filling him even as he prolongs Dwalin’s orgasm into the most insane experience of pleasure Dwalin thinks he has ever felt.

Neither of them can stay upright after. They fall onto the bed, panting, on top of each other and utterly uncomfortable, uncaring at least for now about the strange angles they’re lying in. Dwalin cards his fingers through Bofur’s hair, sweat-soaked and fallen from his braids at last, and Bofur shivers against him.

“Are you alright?” Bofur asks after a while. “That was intense, for a first time no less, and – “

Dwalin silences him with a kiss. “That was perfect,” Dwalin says. “Don’t you dare apologize, I want that every fuckin’ day, d’you hear me?”

Bofur, of all ridiculous things, blushes, as if he were an elvish maiden and not the dwarf who’d just buggered what felt like an ocean of come out of Dwalin. “Aye,” he says, “I hear you.”


End file.
